Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (20 page)

Taking Kim’s advice on the walk home I shut my mouth to listen but don’t hear a word. The cry of car engines fogs my auditory range. Trekking beside Highway 41, I’m a dot along the cluttered road. A mile from school, this is the hall with no walls. This is the world. I can kick a cigarette butt along the sidewalk but I can’t kick the habit of Billy. He’s in my lungs, pulling me, telling me to breathe him in.

This is my addiction.

Love is a drug.

I need my fix.

Though for now, air-conditioning will do.

I look ahead to a strip-mall that contains a Mexican market, a laundromat, and an independent bookstore. A hand-written sign on the bookstore’s tinted window indicates comic books and XXX magazines are for sale. I figure a reading break may chill me out so I take a look.

Entering the store I hear a bell chime. By the door, an antique cash register is left unguarded and the inside reeks of moldy paper. A cinnamon broom attempts to swallow the stench but only makes it worse.

Toward the back, I hear movement but don’t see a face. Cluttered shelves separate the narrow quarters, dividing the store into three aisles. Venturing forth, I see the outline of a short man reading a comic book. Momentarily consumed, he fails to look up when I sneeze.

Reaching the magazine aisle, I opt to kill time by sifting through the usual teenzines that market perfection. The perfect body, the perfect clothes, and the perfect image – it’s attainable if I peek under the cover; this is what one caption tells me. Though the truth is I don’t feel perfect looking at these perfect teens. I feel like hurting them and myself. But I’m too cute to hurt myself so I say screw it.

It’s good to be alive.

It’s even better when you’re stranded in the adult section.

On aisle three, I thumb through an assortment of fashion magazines as an excuse to reach the X-rated beefcakes waiting on the top rack. I should be bashful and looking over my shoulder but I don’t give a damn. I need to super-connect with XXX boys when I’m striking out on love.

My fingers tingle at the touch of a magazine with a ripped surfer boy ripping off his wetsuit.

“See something you like?” a man asks from behind. His voice sounds southern and familiar. My body jolts and the magazine falls from my grasp, opening at my feet. The centerfold, a hairy hunk posing on the beach, is in clear view. “Oh, I remember you,” the man says. I spin around to discover Chess from Twinkies. He wears a plaid cowboy shirt and his breath smells like smoke and onions. I flash back to running away from him at Twinkies. “You’re that newbie from the bar,” he declares. “You weren’t very nice to me, darlin’.”

Taking a step back, my voice becomes shaky. “Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.”

He notes the magazine on the floor. “Aren’t you a tad young to be reading that sort of thing?” He licks his lips, approaching.

I’m shaken but still brazen. “Aren’t you a tad old to be this close to me?”

“Never too old for that,” he says.

“Would you mind leaving me alone?”

“Oh, don’t be ugly. I work here. I was merely about to offer you some assistance.”

I need a boyfriend, not assistance, thank you. I need a boy who won’t be ashamed to be seen in public with me. There must be a better alternative than to have pornography fill this void. But no, I’m stuck here alone with Chess. A true entrepreneur, he works two jobs and wants to know if I’m the submissive type. “Do you want a sugar daddy? Do you like to beg for it?” he asks, grazing my chin with his hand.

For some reason he thinks I’m into him. Thinking about kissing him gives me an icky feeling, like how you’d feel after swallowing a Band-Aid in a public pool.

When I smack his hand and run away he hollers a mouthful of profanity at me but the bell at the door swallows most of his words. Outside the store, I’m so manic from the adrenaline buzz that I believe the image of mom is a hallucination. Unfortunately, it’s not.

In all pink, mom carries a white laundry basket full of clothes toward her manager’s BMW. The clothes seem strangely familiar, and soon I realize they’re mine.

Startled by my appearance, mom trips and drops the basket in an oil puddle. Instead of being upset she enters into a fit of laughter reminiscent of the hysterical outbursts I’d heard back at the crisis unit. I might have joined in if my clothes hadn’t just been ruined.

“Tyler! What are you doing here?” mom asks. She’s a psychic but she can’t figure out what I’m doing at a bookstore.

“Catching up on summer reading,” I inform her. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying my hand at domestic bliss,” she sighs. “Though as you can see, I’m not having much luck.” Retrieving the basket, she wipes its bottom with the edge of her pink shirt. Oil and gravel create a dark circle around her belly. “I might not have that maternal instinct after all. But it was worth a try, right?”

“Why are you doing my laundry?”

“Your father thought it would be a nice gesture. Stupid move?”

I don’t know what to say. I ask myself, should I clean her up or toss her out?

“Oh, look at me,” she continues, noticing her stain. “Well, everything happens for a reason. That’s my theory. If something is ruined, let it go and blessed be.” While I wait for the sea to part and a church choir to break into song, mom nods for me to follow her to the car. “So tell me. What were you reading?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried. To worry is to live your life in fear. I’m not afraid. Just curious.”

“God, do you always talk like some, some….”

“What?”

“Freak.”

Hurt, she talks with a whisper. “I don’t like it when you speak to me like that.” She struggles to fit the laundry beside a tambourine and a small wooden drum in the trunk of her car. “I’d like to make things right with you. I would. But what can I do?”

That’s the problem. I’m not sure there is anything she can do. A real mom would know how to do laundry. A real mom would ask why I’m not in school. “I just wish you could be normal,” I confess.

“If only it were that simple,” mom replies, closing the trunk. “People have tried to change me but I’m set in my ways. Just ask your father.”

I would but I’m not sure if dad and I are speaking. I have yet to simmer from the fight we had over Billy, and since that night, our conversations have been limited to sharing information about Jenny’s progress at the unit.

“Dad and I don’t talk much,” I admit.

“Then who do you talk to?” Silence, accompanied by my dour expression, sends mom the message that I talk to myself more than anyone else. “Listen, I’m headed off to serenade the sea,” mom smiles, attempting to cheer me up. “How about joining me?” I’m not sure what her idea entails so I simplify things by saying no. “Oh, don’t be a stinker. I’m only in town for a few days. Then the circus is scheduled to perform in Orlando.”

“Well, I hope you have a safe trip.” I turn on my heel.

“Wait! I’m not leaving yet!” mom calls. “Orlando is light years away. Today, let’s serenade the sea, if not for me, for Mother Earth.” I can’t believe she just said that. Does she think that talking like a crazy lady will coax me into joining her? No way, I’m not going. There’s nothing she can say that will change my mind. “You can drive,” she adds, rattling her car keys. “You in?”

Well…maybe for the sake of Mother Earth.

But not for you, mom.

Not for you.

Dad often complains about a certain stretch of beach nestled beside a strip of pine trees on Sunset Key. Dubbed ‘no-real-man’s land’ by dad, the coastline I speak of runs nearly a half-mile along the north side of the island and opens up into the clean green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. About a ten-minute walk from the nearest lifeguard stand, the destination is famous for shark’s teeth but infamous for dunes where gay men meet to frolic under tall tufts of fountain grass.

“Hiding places are what lure them,” dad told me long ago. “Gay men love to hide their sickness.”

I laughed off the comment. I was brazen back then but not brave enough to visit that section of the beach. I stayed far away in total fear that dad would have the S.W.A.T. team sent after me if he ever learned I was anywhere in the vicinity of those dunes. Still, I’ve always had a morbid curiosity about what goes on there. So today, with mom in tow, I figure why not take in the scenic route? Mom says she’s cool with the gays.

“I’ve never seen so many men in Speedos,” she smiles, spreading her pink-flowery beach blanket on the sand. Then taking a seat, she steadies a pair of bongos between her knees.

“You mean those guys?” I ask. I point to a pair of sculpted men splashing each other in the water. Olive-skinned, both men sport green bikini-bottoms. “They’re European. They don’t make men like that in America. Not since the advent of cheap beer.” My chest burns with envy as the men cease toying around to kiss unabashedly. “Damn. That’s hot.”

“How wonderful. They’re in love!” mom says.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No. We need more of it,” she says, beginning to bang on her bongos. I wonder if she’s visiting from another planet. Seriously, was she dropped from Venus? How could she be so cool yet so lame for leaving me? “All right, begin,” she says, creating a steady beat.

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, glaring at the wooden tambourine in my left hand. She insisted I bring it.

“Once in a while we have to show our thanks. Human life was born in the water,” mom says. “So many people forget that.”

“So many people don’t care.”

“The Gulf of Mexico is a neglected soul,” she declares. Her cream-puffy white skin spills out of an unflattering pink one-piece that matches her beach blanket. “Can you hear it screaming for attention?”

“Not really.”

“You must listen.”

I cup my ear to the water but nothing comes except for the call of a seagull and the buzz of a powerboat sliding along the horizon. Who knows? Maybe the gulf is upset with me. It’s true. I have neglected it. I’ve been too consumed with my own reflection in this world to take time to witness the beauty of the sun-glittered sea or anything else for that matter. Still, is this whole serenading bit really necessary?

As miniature waves collapse along the shoreline, mom progresses in her drumming technique, morphing into a tribal beat with an uneven pace. I stall from hitting my tambourine to study her unbridled passion and the way the sun magnifies the creases in her face, especially in the corners of her eyes. It’s weird. Swaying to the rhythm, she seems to transcend time. I see the kid in her heart. Her inhibition reveals her youthfulness – the girl dad thought would make him grow young instead of old.

“Join me,” she insists.

“Fine,” I say, hitting the stupid tambourine. “Are you happy now?”

“That’s it. Keep it up.”

I slap the tambourine with more force and an elderly man lifts his head off a rainbow beach blanket. The look on his wrinkled face tells me he’s not happy. Perhaps being here with mom might not be a good idea. Alienating my peers at school is one thing, but being surrounded by my people, I should play nice. I’d rather not be an outcast in a culture outcast by mainstream society. Besides, this whole serenading bit is really awkward, even for me.

“Ok, I’m over this,” I announce, tossing the tambourine.

Continuing her descent into madness, mom keeps the beat, rocking her limber body to and fro. Luckily, the majority of men around us find each other more appealing than the deranged woman with the drum.

In an attempt to scope out the guys nearby, I crane my neck to survey the sand dunes behind us. Trying to be casual, I can’t help but let out a yelp, seeing Eric in the distance. Wearing red board shorts that hang dangerously close to his manhood, he seems to be holding an intimate conversation with an older man blessed with a dark tan and tree trunk arms. The man runs a finger down Eric’s hairy chest and when Eric laughs I find myself turned on. I can’t help it. Even if Eric’s an ass, he’s still sexy.

I think back to the night Eric slept in my bed. That night, he told me I was lucky we weren’t alone, and that I should be grateful to have dad in the next room. Why did he say that? What would he have done to me if dad hadn’t been there? Would I have enjoyed it?

Suddenly, mom begins chanting to a hovering cloud. Hearing her voice, Eric turns to view us.

I grant him a wave, and he returns the gesture with an invitation to join him in the fountain grass. “Are you up for it?” he laughs, grabbing his balls. “Or will Billy be mad?”

Shrinking inside, I refuse to let Eric know his nasty words bother me. So I smile and turn around to view the motion of the water.